


The Hope Only of Empty Men

by Meysun



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Broken Dean, Dean Winchester Feels, Grief/Mourning, Hurt Dean Winchester, Multi, Musings about Dean feelings, POV Dean Winchester, Post-Episode: s13e02 The Rising Son, Sad
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-25
Updated: 2017-10-25
Packaged: 2019-01-23 04:58:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,974
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12499264
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Meysun/pseuds/Meysun
Summary: Dean walks out of Jack's room. He still holds the knife. He can still hear the words he just said, knows they run so much deeper than the blade he clings to - that they are unlike him, unfeeling, cold, and horrible. He wishes he could still care.[A small dive into Dean's thoughts after taking the knife from Jack.]





	The Hope Only of Empty Men

**Author's Note:**

> This is my little drabble about Dean's feelings in this episode - because I found his portrayal really believable and profoundly human. It's obvious he's still in shock, running on fumes, and I really loved Sam's words to Jack about him - shows he knows him so well... It's sad, of course, because I think that right now Dean has really reached the bottom (and when I think about what Sam and him have lost, really... I hope the writers will soon make it a bit more bearable to them, *hint towards Castiel* :D).  
> You can read this work as a veiled admission of Destiel or not - I love Cas and Dean's dynamic, and both options are fine for me :).  
> The title comes from a poem from T. S. Eliot, called "The Hollow Men".

 

 

Dean walks back into his room, fingers clenched around bottle and knife, and if he had any inch of humor left – but he hasn't – he'd make a mental note for Donatello to check the lore for such attributes. Anthony has the baldness, and the Child. Sebastian has the arrows. But those are saints – Catholic saints, and even though it's creepy really, the way they are often sculpted or drawn with the weapons that broke them, Dean is no saint.

Dean is so far from a saint that he just caused a boy to try and knife himself.

But no – not a boy. Jack is a Nephilim. He's a freaking _time-bomb_. There's no way he won't turn evil, because everything always turns bad, because when has love and goodwill and well-meaning _ever_ been enough...?

Dean places the knife on the dresser in his room, cradles the bottle, just stands there.

There are no words – truly – for the emptiness he feels.

He caused Jack to try and knife himself.

_He's afraid of you, Dean._

Dean who told him that, should he be right, should Jack turn evil, he would be the one to end him.

And no, Dean does not miss the irony in that, because when his Dad asked him to do the exact same with Sammy – _kill him, if he couldn't save him_ – Dean was the one who fought, hard, desperately and oh so full of devastating love, so that his brother would stay good. At his side. Aware that he was not even close to evil, despite the demon blood cursing in his veins.

If Dean was nostalgic, if Dean was inclined to self-pity, perhaps he would go to the drawer close to his bed, and pull out the pictures. Those showing a much, much younger him, more than a decade ago. Those where his face still has something of a boy, where the leather jacket he wears looks slightly too big, where his features have a roundness, almost a softness he has completely lost, since Hell perhaps, or since Sammy took his swan-dive into the Pit.

That young Dean had a lot of scars, but wasn't broken yet. That Dean loved his brother and his father fiercely, and his life of dust and roads, of motels and bars, of dusty lore books and loud, obtrusive jokes, and sex… That Dean had moments of childlike glee, whenever the food was unexpectedly tasty, whenever someone cracked a really funny joke, whenever someone showed true goodness of heart… It used to warm him up, it used to make it up to him somehow – because he felt part of this world, bound to defend the beautiful sides of humanity it still harbored.

But Hell broke that – because no matter how many people they saved, Hell took Dean's goodness from him, put a stain on his soul that went far deeper than the burn-mark on his shoulder.

After Hell, Dean wasn't sure anymore of what was good – that he was even _part_ of those who were good. And after the Apocalypse, after losing Sam – Dean basically just tried. To find someone who needed him, someone he could love and care for – but it never felt the same.

He has a picture of him, and Lisa, and Ben. And he's smiling on that one, head resting slightly again hers, arm draped around Ben who's taking the selfie – but than man isn't Dean. It's a dream-Dean, a Dean that never could be, and never really was. 

Sometimes, Dean used to think he was nothing more than the wild man fighting for survival in Purgatory – that man who trusted Benny and loved him for the friend he was, that man who tried so hard to find Cas because Cas was more than a friend.

Cas was Dean's symbol of salvation – because Cas dragged him out of Hell, but also, and more so, because Cas failed, and sinned, and committed unforgivable things, but always came back, searching for redemption, fighting to atone for his deeds. Cas showed Dean the way, just like Dean showed Cas that they were alike. Both had killed, both had sinned, both still tried to go on after that.

But now Cas is gone.

And Dean… it feels to Dean that he burned with him. That tiny part of him that still hoped, that still marveled, that looked up… it is gone.

It seems to Dean he has lost his very soul, and he wishes it would scare him, because fear would be a normal reaction to that – fear would be _like him_. But he has nothing left in him to care.

And it is weird, actually. Because in their little group, they are quite the experts in matters of soullessness. Jack – Jack may have a soul, but it is unshaped, unfit for his teenage body. He marvels at cartoons, and yet he's unable to tell right from wrong – he'd have raised those Shedim-creatures from Hell without an eye-blink, too happy to finally have a mission…

_No, that's your doing, Dean. You made him so desperate for a purpose he was willing to listen to anyone._

Dean shakes his head slightly, because his mind feels foggy. He's trying to keep track of his thoughts here, but it doesn't help that he's beat – utterly and truly beat, eyes burning and muscles aching with exhaustion.

He walks towards his bed, stares at it. The room is lifeless. He used to love it, tried to shape it, make it his den – yet it was never even close to what the Impala was to him…

 _Soulless_ … He was trying to make a point there… Yeah – Jack is acting like he's soulless for sure, or maybe Dean is just trying to pin that on him because he has to – has to stay detached, aware. Someone has to. Someone has to be the bad guy – the one who's ruthless enough to pull the trigger, and Dean is a perfect example of a bad guy.

Sammy on the other hand isn't. True, when Sammy lost his soul he was a terrifying, cold, calculating no-more-brother. The opposite of Donatello, who's taking things very calmly, like the freaking philosopher or whatever-it-is-he-studied-or-teached – and applies to himself the “rule of regular Joe”, or something close to that… Donatello doesn't look soulless, he just acts weird – but then, all those university people act weird for Dean…

Dean who was never truly soulless, but felt like it all the time he bore the Mark – terrified to lose himself, to go berserk, to be nothing more than a raging beast.

He'd never have thought that truly losing himself would result in not being able to feel. 

Feeling, and caring – that's the only thing he still had, after Hell, after Purgatory, even after the Darkness. After Mary left and came back, after everything.

But not now.

Now Dean doesn't feel anything, in fact he doesn't even feel like he's inside his body – it rather feels like he's watching himself act, and speak, and drive, and argue, and drink from far away. He's on autopilot. He knows the buttons for every default reaction he's supposed to have – and manages to push them, dutifully. Whenever Jack's involved – _glare, point out what can be used to call him evil, prevent the stupid kid from hurting himself nonetheless_. Whenever Sammy speaks to him – _remember to pause, remember to listen, remember to soak_ _in_ _Sammy's words because he usually knows Dean_.

But actually… actually Dean mostly feel like he's watching. He's watching Sammy who's still feeling, who still has so much goodness and hope and trust in him that he's willing to try and save Jack – and also managed to tell Dean they would make it, like they always do…

That calm, detached voice in his head Dean cannot really pinpoint raises again – tells Dean that perhaps Sammy focuses so much on Jack because it's his way to cope, and because Sam has always bonded with the “freaks”, having believed for ages, despite Dean's efforts, that he was one of them. The voice also asks Dean if Sammy wasn't expecting him to confirm his words – agree that yes, they would make it. A small, brotherly vow in a broken world they could barely recognize.

But Dean couldn't.

Dean cannot.

There's nothing left in him. Not a single inch of hope.

He's beat.

He doesn't care.

He made Jack plunge the knife in his chest, again and again, like an emo teenager with a death-wish, because he has turned into a soulless robot – programmed to remove the threat, but not to undo the damage. He took the knife, but dealt deeper blows with his words – and he did so willingly, consciously, with the utmost determination.

Because, truth is – truth is Dean cannot do this anymore.

He cannot get attached, let himself get closer to Jack – because whenever Dean gets close, whenever Dean loves, something comes up that pries them all from him, use them as leverage. And then Dean does something stupid, and tries to change fate, and ends up with darkness and desolation, and death and emptiness.

Tomorrow he'll tell Sam, about Jack. He'll tell him about the V-shaped knife marks in his shirt – the one causing him to yell in that automatic default-reaction he still manages to summon.

He knows Sam will be worried for Jack, and pissed at him, probably shocked too. Maybe he'll try to talk, maybe he'll yell at Dean. Maybe he'll still ask the impossible from Dean – share his hopes, shoulder some of the worry and care.

Act like the Dean he used to be – the Dean who forgave a fallen angel, who ended up almost-liking Crowley, who felt close to a vampire, who let a werewolf run, who withstood the Brits telling them the world wasn't always black and white. The Dean who stopped Sammy before he finished the Trials and hugged him tight, the Dean who said “ _come on, man_ ” like a thousand “ _I love you_ ”'s, the Dean who cradled Charlie carefully as she cried, who found words to bring Mary back, who was working on his car and cleaning the kitchen whenever there was nothing else left – who was trying to fix it, always, for good and for worse…

That Dean feels miles away.

That Dean looks like a saint, from his point of view. So much younger, so silly and full of hope and goodness – even the Dean from a few days ago, the one who still had Mary and Cas. That one was damaged, had bent, but had not broken.

This – this Dean who lets a kid turn so desperate he wants to stop _existing_ – this Dean who tells him coldly, even after having witnessed so much pain and fear, that he'll end him should he turn – this Dean who quietly put the knife down, and doesn't finish his bottle, but sits on the ground instead and stares, and stares, at his closed wardrobe – this Dean is a shadow who has forgotten how to feel.

He knows how much he lost – he knows. It's the only thing he knows, and it claws and claws at his chest, digging everything out, making him feel empty and emptier.

He doesn't cry. He doesn't drink. He doesn't break anything.

He just sits, quietly, in the darkness, head leaning against the edge of the bed.

He'll get up in the morning, because he has to. He'll tell Sammy, because he has to. He'll not make any step towards Jack, because he has to. And he'll hunt that yellow-eyed Asmodeus, because this is what they do, because they have to.

Dean knows he will – that the empty shell he is now will do all that.

For now, however, Dean just sits, knees slightly raised, hands loosely curled around the carpet, and lets exhaustion wash over him until he truly feels nothing.

**Author's Note:**

> Yes I know, it's sad... But I like to think that Dean is trying very hard not to get closer to Jack, and that eventually he'll grow warm towards him, like he so often does :). I also do not believe that Dean is empty, or a bad man -- I think he's very human, and truly lovable. But remember we're in Dean's head here... And now really, writers : Chuck, Castiel, anyone but make it up a tiny bit, Sam and Dean have had enough :D!!  
> Tell me what you think if you feel like it, I love reviews, and enjoy the new episode tomorrow :). Take care, Meysun.


End file.
